


Small Favors

by echoist



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: 3.08, Episode Tag, Multi, Possible Blasphemy?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 06:34:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echoist/pseuds/echoist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of the celebrations at Uppala, Athelstan attempts to settle his grievance with Ragnar. The negotiations do not go quite as planned, but perhaps they end as they were always meant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Small Favors

The sacrifices over, the camp yet remains at the temple for another day and night to honor the gods and try to seek their counsel for the coming years. Lagertha busies herself seeing the children to bed – no longer children, she has to remind herself more than once, and paces the floor beyond their beds. Fear walks beside her this night, her heart gripped by a cold hand. If the gods have not been appeased, the coming years will not be easy upon her family. Her husband sits by the fire, alone with his thoughts and she turns her feet towards him until her eyes light upon Athelstan doing the same. She pauses behind a column, holding to see what words of wisdom their priest might have to share. In his place, she thinks, she might seek to drive a knife into Ragnar's heart, but their ways are not the same and the moment bears waiting out. 

Athelstan fills two horns with drink and settles down next to the fire pit, where Ragnar sits and stares into the flames, poking at the coals with a short blade. Athelstan brushes against Ragnar's shoulder, and a drop of mead falls into the hearth, bringing with it a hiss of steam. 

Ragnar stares at him, a mixture of contrition and determination on his face. Athelstan has only before seen him wear this look in the presence of his wife, and he finds it unsettling. 'You would drink with me, priest?' Ragnar asks, his voice bitter with anger. 

'Yes,' Athelstan answers quietly, waiting until Ragnar has taken the first sip. He is kept waiting.

'This morning I would have willingly sacrificed you to Odin in the hopes of regaining his favor, and yet here you sit beside me to break words. I do not understand your kind.' He takes a deep drink from the horn, and Athelstan gratefully does the same. 

'Am I such a stranger, still?' Athelstan asks, watching the flames dance and snap. 'Your people yet call me priest in mockery, a title to which I can no longer lay claim. I have adopted your ways, your dress, your habits.' Ragnar shrugs and drinks his mead, never once turning his head in Athelstan's direction. 'And I suppose, in the end, all I am to you is a slave.'

Ragnar stirs at this, turning slightly to face his accuser. 'You are part of my household,' he replies, as if explaining to a child. 'Were you a slave, I would not have granted you the honor of accompanying me to Uppsala.'

'And yet, you still expected me to give my own life in service to your needs,' Athelstan reminds him, drinking until the horn is nearly empty.

'The gods gave me the promise of a child and then took it away,' Ragnar speaks, his words beginning as a harsh whisper and growing louder until the beams of the room shake. 'The gods rejected your sacrifice because it would have only angered them further. Lies flow from your tongue like honey, and despite your oaths, you still cling to your old ways. Your Christian God.' Ragnar spits on the ground, and Athelstan's eyes narrow.

'You think your gods have turned their back on you?' He counters. 'Mine allowed me to be taken from my home, forced me to watch my brothers' blood spilled upon the ground where we worked each day to serve Him. He allowed me to be bound in servitude to you, their killer, who destroyed everything I have ever known. He has turned from me, Ragnar, and I no longer seek His counsel.'

Ragnar drops his drinking horn and reaches out a hand, swift as a snake. He pushes back Athelstan's sleeve and holds his wrist up to the light where the silver cross can gleam in the dim firelight. 'If you are not a liar,' he growls. 'Then why do you still wear the emblem of your god where no one can see?'

'It is but a reminder of the life I have lost,' Athelstan answers, making no move to pull his arm from Ragnar's grasp. 'You grieve for the loss of your unborn son, and I still for the loss of my brothers, but neither of us has suffered so much as did your wife in your absence.'

Ragnar stares at him balefully, his grip on Athelstan's arm tightening painfully. 'You would speak to me of such things? You would blame my unborn son's death on my quest to bring honor to my family and my subjects?'

'Of course not,' Athelstan answers hotly. 'I merely ask that you comfort her, and that you grieve together for the loss you share.' He pauses for a moment, collecting his thoughts in what remains of the fire before speaking again. 'And to confess that I understand why you come here to offer up the lives of your kin and sworn brothers in battle for wisdom and the blessings of your gods.'

Ragnar scoffs, letting go Athelstan's arm. 'You speak without thought, priest,' he mutters.

'I disagree,' Athelstan continues. 'In my stories, the God of the Israelites appeared to His faithful servant Abraham in a vision, and asked him to sacrifice a thing of great meaning to prove his loyalty.'

'More blasphemous nonsense from your lips,' Ragnar complains, refilling their horns and once again taking his place before the fire. 'Perhaps,' Athelstan entertains. 'And yet you have all brought sacrifices here to your gods, in the hope of proving the same. Abraham built an altar at the top of Moriah, a great mountain near the holy city of Jerusalem, and bound his son Isaac hand and foot. He raised a great knife, prepared to make this sacrifice in the name of his God, if this was what was required to prove his devotion.'

Ragnar stares at him curiously over the rim of his drinking horn, nodding for Athelstan to continue. 'Before the blade sunk deep into Isaac's heart, Abraham was pulled away by the voice of an angel – a messenger from God. Perhaps you can think of this creature as a raven sent from Odin, telling Abraham that the test lay not in his ability to shed the blood of his own son, but in the willingness to sacrifice what he held dear.' 

Ragnar seems to ponder this, issuing a low grunt before taking another drink from his horn. 'And what mean you by sharing this story with me now?' he asks, staring back once again into the flames. 

'You brought me here to be a sacrifice and did not even have the decency to warn me of my fate,' Athelstan replies calmly. Ragnar lowers his head in response. 'I was angry, but more than that I felt a bitterness rise within myself like the bite of a snake. I thought that perhaps this had been your plan all along in saving me from the carnage you and your men left behind at Lindisfarne. That I was only ever your fool, and never meant to live among you and share your ways.'

'It was not my intent,' Ragnar protests, his voice nearly lost to the ground beneath their feet. 'Did I not leave my children in your keeping while my wife and I were away in the West? Have I treated you as a slave, bound and collared you, forcing you to eat slop and sleep with the animals?'

'You have not,' Athelstan answered with meaning. 'You showed trust in me. You have been willing to learn from me as I from you. You taught me the ways of your people and I have respected them, seeking to take my place here among your kind.' Ragnar nods slowly, glancing up as Athelstan continues to speak. 

'But you also grieve for a gift that was stolen away too soon, and such loss can turn a man from the ways of grace and hope and into a creature of vengeance. Though I no longer pray to the sacred heart of Jesus for intercession and guidance, as you pray to your gods, I hope that some measure of the kindness He taught me still lingers in my heart.' 

Ragnar drains the last of his mead and turns to face Athelstan, the light from the hearth coloring his skin. 'Speak plainly,' he demands. 'I grow tired of your preaching.' 

Athelstan places his hand on Ragnar's shoulder, clasping it with fingers grown strong over the year. 'I forgive you, Ragnar Lothbrok. Even if you do not feel that your intent in bringing me here requires absolution from any man, myself least of all.' Ragnar's eyes widened, glancing down at the fingers that nearly touched his throat. 

'When you came to me this night,' Ragnar confesses. 'I expected your anger. I expected your fist against my lips, your rage screeching against my ears like a woman's.' Athelstan gives a quiet laugh, and lets his arm slide from Ragnar's shoulder. Ragnar stops its motion, clasping Athelstan's wrist in his fingers. Lagertha steps quietly from the shadows and reaches between them for their drinking horns, refilling them without a word. Ragnar looks up at her, watches her pace through the shadows and come out the other side. Athelstan sees fear and remorse transform his face, and grips Ragnar's wrist tightly in return. 

Lagertha returns and seats herself behind them, a drink in her own hand as she places the remainder in theirs. 'You would do well to listen to his tales, husband,' she advises him. 'Though they are not the stories we sing of our gods, they hold lessons nonetheless.' Athelstan bows his head to her, and she wraps an arm around his shoulders. Ragnar narrows his eyes and scoffs, but watches her in the way Athelstan has seen many men gaze up in wonder and adoration at the cross. 

'He stayed with me when you could not,' Lagertha continues, her voice steady in the recounting. 'He comforted me with words and songs while you sought your destiny across the sea. And when my grief was unbearable, my faith shaken, Athelstan told me that all was not lost, for no ocean was so vast as to separate two souls who loved each other so greatly.'

'You were so certain I would return victorious?' Ragnar asks him, a hint of amusement in his eyes as he clasps his wife about her waist. 'I had faith,' Athelstan replies, his fingers sliding softly against Ragnar's wrist, 'that you would return to where you were needed most.' Ragnar's face shifts, struggling to understand. Athelstan looks from him up to Lagertha, watches the way her hair shimmers and dances in the light, and feels her smile light upon him as a benediction.

'I believe your gods tested your people today, Ragnar,' Athelstan asserts, comforted by their presence in a way his former life would have never allowed him to understand. 'And I believe you honored them well.' 

'You are not angry at me, then, for my intent?' Ragnar asks him, his gaze focused and searching despite the mead churning in his belly. 

'Of course I am angry,' Athelstan answers with a surprised laugh. 'But your gods chose to spare me as the God of the Bible spared Isaac, and in return spared his father from loss and regret. Abraham's wrath faded in time. The wound in my heart shall also pass away, as will yours.' He tilted his head back, speaking now to Lagertha. 'The ways of your gods are unknown to me still, but I will pray that your devotion serves you well, and that you raise many more children to honor them.' 

Lagertha tries to smile, running a hand through his hair and kissing the top of his head in silent gratitude. Ragnar holds out his horn, and Athelstan brings their cups together to cement the blessing. Lagertha completes the circle with her own gesture, and they each drink deeply, thoughts winding along separate paths. When Athelstan lowers the horn from his lips, Ragnar wraps a hand around the back of his neck and draws him in close, pressing their foreheads together in companionship. Lagertha's arms encircle them both, holding them dear, and she kisses each of their cheeks in turn. 

'Will you come to bed, priest?' she asks, her lips moving softly against his skin. Ragnar's hand slides forward to cup Athelstan's cheek and kisses him, far more gently than either of them expected. 'Say yes,' Ragnar asks, and Athelstan's head swims from the drink and the heat of the fire so close. 

'Yes,' he whispers, kissing them each in turn and the acceptance in his mouth feels like an answered prayer.


End file.
